The Science of Things
by museofmirth
Summary: The whole experience was scientific. At least that was how Alfons viewed it all, and how he projected his thoughts of the experience over onto Edward. EdXHei. PLEASE READ AND REVIEW!


**A/N:** This is a pretty explicit EdxHei fic, so if that kind of thing offends you, read no further (no flames, people). That was your warning, folks; there is a reason it's rated M. I wrote this _months _ago, but am just now getting the courage to post it to Anyway, this fic is sort of a follow-up to my other fic, _Here in München_, but you don't have to read it to understand this one. This one's a bit less plot-driven and much more abstract. Anywho...I hope you enjoy!

PLEASE READ AND REVIEW!

**The Science of Things**

The whole experience was scientific. At least that was how Alfons viewed it all, and how he projected his thoughts of the experience over onto Edward. It was not "passion," nor was it "love." It was as simple as cause and effect, a certain technique is expected—or predicted or hypothesized—to given certain results. After so many nights—and mornings and afternoons—of behaving this way, they almost always knew the end results. A certain touch would elicit a soft moan; a caress here, a stroke there would cause Edward to cry out or Alfons' breath to hitch. But they were continually discovering new ways to get those same end results.

Not every night led to this experimentation of sorts, though. Not when Edward would stare at texts and documents until his vision was blurred so irreversibly that no amount of rubbing would coax his eyes to focus. When he could feel the tiny capillaries in his eyes burst with strain, and knew that the mirror would only show him a young man who looked like he had not slept for days. No, those days Edward would shed his clothes reluctantly, feeling defeated, feeling as if each article of clothing that was taken off was a memory being lost. Those nights he would crawl under the covers of their shared bed and feel small, oh, so small, and Alfons would be there, beside him. But the younger boy would not touch Edward, would not initiate anything that could be perceived as celebrating over the elder's defeat.

Sometimes—and it had grown more frequent as the days lengthened into spring—on those lazy afternoons, a shroud of desire would come over Alfons, like the knelling of bells for his very own death. _God, god, make it stop…make it stop! Oh, oh…god…don't stop…_ And he found that often Edward felt it too, and so they would take a break from their studies to formulate theories of a different nature, Alfons kissing his way down Edward's naked back, the older boy shoving a pillow into his own mouth so that their landlady would not hear the noises he was making. And when Edward couldn't take it anymore, he would whine and moan, the pillow beneath him wet with his own saliva, his body thrusting into the mattress. Alfons waited, though, waited for the moment when Edward would lapse back into the language from that other world, when he didn't know the German—or simply couldn't force his mind to function enough to pick the correct words—to express the nameless sensations that wracked his entire body. It was then that Alfons gave in, having found something new and beautiful in his friend's mutterings of an alien tongue, and perhaps he would turn over Edward's prone body, steady the older boy's sweaty thighs with his two perfect hands, and use his mouth to make Edward writhe and come.

Alfons was mostly silent during these times, since there was no secret tongue he could moan breathily to make things surreal, to make them unreal, and yet so very real. He let his lips and tongue and long fingers voice everything that he had no words for…_And He saw the world, and it was good…_Edward learned to cope with the other's silence, learned to think of it not as solemn but as stoic, as a shield that only he could force the younger boy to abandon in those heady moments before release. And the older boy would use his good hand, or possibly his mouth, or he might climb onto the younger boy's lap, arms thrown around Alfons' neck and head, legs—one smooth and muscular, the other only a mockery of flesh and blood—straddling Alfons' bony hips. And Alfons would have to bite his tongue not to cry out as Edward reached down between them with his good hand or pivoted his hips in just the right manner or licked the shell of Alfons' ear or did all those things, and more, at once.

Then they were messy and uncomfortably hot, and Edward would all-too-willingly slide his arms from around Alfons, and Alfons would steal a few kisses from the older boy before they separated, the younger boy's soft lips tasting of Edward's release. They would clean up as best as they could—now they washed their own clothes and bedding, for privacy reasons masked as usefulness—and redress without a word. Alfons had lost count of how many times they had gone through the procedure—all of it, from the undressing to the redressing—that hypotheses were really useless. Often Edward would be hungry and so they would delight in a small, mid-afternoon meal, their focus suddenly shifting from the science of the bedroom to the physics and chemistry of rocketry.

They never gave it a name, never called it anything. It wasn't sex, or making love, or even fucking. If they gave it a name then it wouldn't be new, it wouldn't be their own private discovery, it wouldn't be their own way of communicating to each other that _Oh god, I need you…for this, oh, oh, I need you…_

And so the day would progress as if time and circumstance hadn't molded them into creatures that couldn't stem their own basic desires. They would work and smile like nothing had changed, but silently Alfons would pray—if it could even be called that—that Edward would not tax himself with his work so much that nighttime held no promise of further discovery. Edward would doze off, sometimes, pen in hand, surrounded by notes and texts and half-eaten sausage. Then he would be roused, still in that dream-state halfway between sleep and waking, and find himself being led into the bedroom, coaxed by gentle kisses and murmured promises. And Edward would convince himself that he still was dreaming—for Alfons didn't moan like that or say those kinds of things or move like that—until he would wake the next morning, naked and in a tangle of limbs with the taller blond. He would rub his head and sigh, a little reproachful that Alfons never acted _that_ way, never let Edward do _that_ to him when Edward was coherent.

And so he would eat breakfast alone—ignoring the sounds of Alfons waking and dressing coming from the other room—until the shroud of desire entombed them once more…


End file.
